


Dead Ends & Monstrous Tales

by Ludicrous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27245566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous
Summary: Greg Lestrade had always been good at his job. He didn't solve each and every one of his cases, but it was to be expected.Other times, however, the answer seemed to hover just outside of his reach. While Greg struggled to understand the strange events happening in London, a mysterious team seemed to possess the truth he sought... Although it might not be the one he expected.Once corpses returned from the dead to commit crimes and children began to disappear into the night, Greg needed to learn how to work with the pretentious Mycroft Holmes.Will they be able to overcome their differences and put a stop to these incidents?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Dead Ends & Monstrous Tales

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Jae and Carla for their help with this, when I was about ready to tear my own hair out ^^ you're both amazing <3
> 
> And of course, this work wouldn't exist without Vulpes' love of Halloween and her endless enthusiasm for this time of year!

Dawn carefully locked the door behind her. She tried not to shiver - it was high time she bought a heavy coat. For now, she would have to make do with her jean jacket. She buried her chin in her scarf and started walking.

She jingled the keys in her hand nervously. The sound echoed around her. When silence fell, it felt heavier than a few moments ago.

At the end of the road, Dawn hesitated slightly before turning left. Each day she chose the same itinerary, leaving behind the comfort of public transport. Dawn loathed the idea of the crowded subway even more than she feared walking back home alone. 

She settled for a brisk pace and convinced herself that she would be home in mere minutes.

The sun had already set. She must have taken more time with the inventory than she thought. She hummed a song low in her throat, a melody that her mom used to sing. She had forgotten the words now, but the melody had stuck with her throughout the years.

The leaves ruffled by the wind looked like mice running on the pavement in the near-darkness. Dawn shivered and kicked into a leaf - _there you go, just a fallen leaf, nothing else._

The melody died in her throat as she looked around. She couldn't recognize the street - had she made a left turn or a right run after the bakery? Dawn shook her head to clear it. Perhaps she had not turned at all.

With a shaky breath, Dawn turned around in the middle of the pavement. She took only one step before colliding into someone - _something_.

A scream lodged itself in her throat. She backed away frantically, her eyes widening with horror. Her blue ballerinas slipped on the pavement.

A hand shot out of the shadows and caught her before she fell. Dawn struggled in the grip but she could not shake it off. A sob wrenched itself from her throat.

"Let me go!"

With a snarl, Dawn planted her keys into the hand still holding her. It retreated into the shadows with a pained gasp that didn't sound human.

A car passed them by and illuminated the face of her attacker - long, pale features that she would have recognized anywhere. Instead of running away, Dawn staggered back with a gasp of surprise.

"Cecil, what-"

These were her last words - blood gurgled from her mouth and her mouth moved with a choked-off sound.

Cecil looked down at the prone body coolly. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the droplets of blood doting his cheek.

"Such a mess."

A smile that was not wholly human stretched his skin to a terrifying degree.

***

Rain had been falling steadily on the pavement for hours. It had gently washed the blood away, cleansing Dawn's face of the grim of death - leaving her pale and unchanged, a sculpture masterpiece. She looked peaceful, as if she were only asleep. Someone had gently closed her eyes, hiding the look of horror within. 

The rain had also taken away the prints and most evidence. There was nothing left to do but try to find her identity - the tag on her clothes had only given them a name, _Dawn_.

Greg kept walking back to the place where she laid. He knew better than to touch a corpse - not before the forensics had done their job, anyway - but there was something so vulnerable in her small frame. She looked like she had just fallen over and needed a hot chocolate and a warm blanket around her shoulders.

It didn’t help that she looked a lot like Greg’s niece, Claire. They had the same blue strands in their hair. Greg turned back to his duties with a sharp intake of breath.

Anderson was standing in the middle of the crime scene without moving. He had been doing that for some time now, eructing theories and loud demonstrations of pity. 

It was true that the case was quite baffling. Dawn looked like the life had been sucked out of her and she had dropped down as if she had lived for a hundred years instead of a mere twenty-five. There was no wound, no trace of attack save for the red mark on her wrist.

Anderson held an evidence bag loosely between two fingers, too absorbed in his speech to think of anything else.

"That poor girl!" He repeated for the umpteenth time. 

Lestrade took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he had made a silent promise not to throttle the poor idiot - at least not before his holidays. 

Sally, sensing the inspector's mounting frustration, snatched the evidence from Anderson's grip and put it away to safety. Clever girl.

Lestrade turned as his name was uttered. He frowned as he saw a man who was obviously not a policeman standing in the middle of his crime scene. Usually, curious passersby were dealt with by Sally. Somehow, this man had gotten past her.

"Yes?" Lestrade asked, more than a little annoyed. 

It might have boiled down to the fact that the man's suit was impeccably clean while Greg himself was soaked to the bone. Or maybe it was the unnerving way the stranger's blue eyes bore into Greg like he knew something Greg did not.

"My deepest apologies for bothering you, detective inspector," the stranger's voice was smooth and Greg found himself drawn in without meaning to. "I come bearing good news. You will be glad to get out of the rain. My people will take care of this-."

The stranger made a broad sweep of his hand to encompass the crime scene. He was not asking permission, Greg noticed. His polite manners were only a thin layer of varnish over his commanding air.

"And who, exactly, are you?"

Greg's voice had turned low and menacing - everyone in the vicinity backed away. Everyone but the stranger, who raised an eyebrow with definite amusement.

"Mycroft Holmes," he answered.

He did not add any title or clarification. He handed over a card which was just as mysterious: his name, in italic letters. Nothing else but a number.

Greg swallowed, wondering how high up someone had to be to have that kind of card. Probably high enough to have weekly tea with the Queen.

"Can I ask for something to tell the family, once we get a hold of them?"

"As I said, inspector, we will take care of it. In fact, you should forget all about Dawn Kelly."

Greg lowered his head in what looked like acceptance. His wet strands of hair hid the look of surprise on his face. He immediately committed Dawn’s surname to memory. 

He might not be deemed smart enough to figure out what had happened to that poor girl, but he could not be stopped from keeping an eye out.

That night, Greg found a mostly blank notebook. He wrote Dawn Kelly in bold letters and wrote all he knew of the case, every detail he could remember. He slipped Holmes' card there, too. The act of defiance of putting Holmes' precious card in that battered notebook thrilled him, his stomach twisting with rebellious energy.

A week later, Donovan arrived with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. Her face was grim.

"There's been another one, sir," she declared in a low voice, slipping the newspaper in front of him.

Greg looked up blearily from his paperwork. His mind was filled with names and technicalities and it took him some time to understand what he was reading. 

Sally's finger pointed to a few lines in one corner of the page. It read: "Man found dead this morning - identity unknown. A witness assured quite loudly that they had seen the murderer - a woman of twenty-five, ex-employee at the library..." 

Greg frowned: "How does that concern us? And what do you mean, another one? If you're talking about murder, I'm sorry to tell you that there are, in fact, a lot of murders happening in the city."

Sally rolled her eyes and closed the door. She put her back against it, effectively blocking anyone entering, then she said : 

"Dawn, twenty-five, worked for the Aeos Library for five years before 'disappearing' one night."

Greg's eyebrows hit his hairline.

"The article doesn’t mention a name. Why would you think it was her?”

"I went over and talked to the witness," Sally admitted; she shifted where she stood. 

"Aren't you supposed to work on our current case?" Greg asked because he had to, as her boss, although his tone lacked conviction. The smile tugging at his lips betrayed how proud he really was.

Sally crossed her arms and raised her chin.

"I did it during my lunch break."

They were interrupted by Anderson; Sally quickly turned to hide his view of Greg's desk. Greg turned the pages until he got to the sports section.

***

Greg spent the rest of the day with his head buzzing with questions. How could one person die and come back the next week to kill a man?

Greg checked the identity of the man, looking for a clue or any kind of link between the victim and his 'murderer'. There was nothing. Usually, at this point, some sort of instinct pushed him in the right direction - or they found another lead to follow.

This time, they had no other lead.

Greg sighed and put away all the papers he had gathered about Michael Stephens, the victim. There was nothing out of the ordinary; he led a simple life. His family saw him at Christmas and thought him a kind son and an affectionate brother. Clearly, the most interesting that had happened to Michael was getting murdered.

Greg could not wrap his head around the idea of Dawn being a murderer. He had met plenty of murderers before and he knew enough not to believe that there was a type. But still, why would a sweet librarian disappear for two weeks and come back to kill a complete stranger?

But more than that, it made no sense. If she was smart enough to disappear without a trace, why would she be clumsy enough to let a witness see her face? She had chosen a clean space without CCTV, and yet she had made this huge mistake.

Greg took up his notes and walked to the window. He looked outside; a thin rain fell down on a sea of umbrellas undulating in the wind.

It had been raining the day of Dawn’s death, too. It explained the lack of prints and evidence, but it shouldn’t have erased the marks on her. Apart from a red mark in the shape of fingers on her forearm, her skin was untouched. She didn’t look like she had struggled - or at least, not for long.

At the time, the theory had been that she had known her attacker. But all her acquaintances had alibis for the time of the murder.

Struck by a sudden idea, Greg turned back the pages of his notebook with a shaking hand.

There, between two lines of writing about colleagues being innocent, a name was written down carelessly :

_Cecil Mayers, twenty-seven, her latest boyfriend: disappeared a week ago without a trace._

"Cecil…" Greg whispered. 

The name brought back a vague sense of recollection. There had been pictures of the two of them in her flat - the man had kind eyes and a smiling mouth.

A single search of the man’s name brought quick results: John Doe found dead in September, later identified as Cecil Mayers.

When Greg checked the time of death, it was exactly a week before Dawn’s murder. It could not be a coincidence.

But what did it mean? How could someone be both at the morgue and out there killing his girlfriend?

Greg’s first idea was zombies and he dismissed it with a laugh. His niece had introduced him to _The Walking Dead_ with glee - he had never understood where her passion for the show came from. 

At their next lunch break, Sally and Greg gave Anderson the slip and sat down in their favourite Mexican. As Sally ate with gusto, Greg explained to her what he had learned.

"Is that all you’ve got, boss? Do you want me to be your Scully? Cause, strangely enough, I’m not really believing in the zombie theory. Now, shapeshifters, on the other hand…"

Greg swatted at her but he soon joined in on her laughter. 

Greg worked on his other cases but he did not forget Dawn. She was his unsolved case, the one that would haunt his dreams for his entire life if he did not solve it now.

He resolved to talk to Cecil’s family. His murder had been covered up, just like Dawn’s had been. Greg went to visit them in their flat in London. He stopped for a moment outside and lit a cigarette. No light was on inside.

The doorbell rang without an answer for long moments. Greg listened to its echo through the door for a long time. As he turned to leave, he heard the creak of a door opening.

Charlotte Mayers stood on the threshold. She nervously turned on a light inside and peered at Greg. No word left her mouth.

"Charlotte Mayers?"

She bobbed her head in agreement. Her expression was still in shadow but the light illuminated the angles of her hairstyle - a jumble of strands in all directions.

"I have some questions to ask you. Can I enter?"

"Your badge," she croaked. Her voice sounded as if she had not spoken in a thousand years.

Greg showed his badge and she peered at it for some time before opening the door further.

Wilted flowers laid abandoned on various surfaces - meagre comforts for their grief. Both parents were dressed in black and Charlotte turned on the lights as they went - more to accommodate her guest than for her own sake.

In the lounge, countless dishes were strewn everywhere, apparently untouched. Greg reached out and caught a dish of lasagna before it clattered to the ground.

"You can take it, if you wish," Charlotte’s husband said from his armchair. "We have more than enough."

Greg nodded and awkwardly stepped over piles of books before he could reach the unencumbered part of the sofa.

"What was it you wanted to ask us, inspector?" Charlotte asked. "I thought the case was closed."

Greg swallowed nervously. The longer he stayed silent, the more hope bloomed in Charlotte and Andrew’s chest. They were both leaning forward, their breaths held as if they awaited news of their son’s survival.

"No new elements, of course," Greg said. "I simply wanted to be thorough and go through every possible path with you."

The hope had been extinguished. Hostility and resentment took its place.

"What do you mean, every possible path?" Andrew crossed his arms over his chest. "Your colleague told us that the suspect had confessed."

"He did, he did, it’s only that we need to be sure that he would not lie."

"Who would lie about such a thing?" Charlotte exclaimed, her brow furrowed.

"Well, my dear, if he was deranged… He did kill himself, after all."

Greg searched for a way to ask for the suspect’s name without ever finding one. All he knew was that it was a man. But if that one died too, was he dealing with an endless loop of deaths blamed on already dead suspects?

Greg excused himself not long afterwards, his head buzzing with thoughts. The entire business was very strange and Greg was leaning more and more towards the conspiracy theory. He wished his inner voice stopped sounding so much like Anderson.

When Greg went back to work the next day, there was a cup of coffee waiting for him on his desk. Greg figured it came from Sally so he gulped it down, before stopping. It tasted nothing like their usual coffee from the breakroom. It had the rich taste of home-made coffee as if each bean had been carefully blended.

Despite his wish to relish this gift from Heaven, Greg’s suspicious nature got the better of him. There was no brand on the cup, nothing to give away the name of this knight in shining armour. Greg frowned.

This had been put there by someone who had access to expensive coffee, someone who knew when Greg started his day and who wished to give him a gift - or perhaps a poisonous one, everything was possible.

Greg’s eyes fell on his desk. There was an envelope resting there, one he most certainly didn’t have yesterday.

Inside, a simple line of text on a beige background: _Stop looking._

Greg binned the rest of the heavenly tasting coffee with a shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you figure out what happened to Dawn?   
> What did you think of this first mystery? Please leave your theories and thoughts below - every comment is greatly appreciated <3


End file.
